Sitting in the breakfast nook,
Flipping through a saucy book, browsing for a bit of titillation.
Morning is warming on your mouth,
Last days of direct sunlight for this part of the house.
Move into the great room. Get the clean corn broom, sweeping up a sad old pillar of salt.
You're feeling glummer as summer dies off.
Something was released with autumn's first cough. Matter seems immaculate until it is consumed or distressed.
See her with her kitchen soap.
Cleaning up the breakfast she knows it's never finished 'till the others replenished.
Propped up on the mantel piece, trophies stuffed in a life that flies.
A couple of seconds can be a long time if'n its froze.